Perfect Fit
by The Lady Wolfshead
Summary: Is Snape really as good as Dumbledore believes?


I was listening to 'A Perfect Fit' by AFI and it got me thinking . . . has Snape really spurned the Dark Lord?

Disclaimer: Everything connected to Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. The lyrics to 'Perfect Fit' belong to AFI. 

*

Fifteen years ago now the First War ended, the Dark Lord reduced to a mere shade. Yet I remember that day as vividly as I remember what I had for breakfast this morning – smoked kippers, since some of you will want to know. 

My tattoo started burning at around three in the afternoon, and, abandoning my study, I went to see what the Dark Lord wanted. He was in good spirits, for once, and I guessed that that could only mean one thing – the war was going in our favour. Yes, I say _ourfavour – I was a Death Eater, I had entered the service of the Dark Lord willingly and as such, I saw no reason to be ashamed of having ever associated myself with him. _

He smiled, as we all appeared and bowed before him. A man was stood next to him, nervously twirling the hem of his robes in his fingers. I recognised him at once; he was the quiet one that hung around with Potter and his friends. 

"It is time," the Dark Lord said. "Wormtail, who entered my service a little over a year ago, was made the Potters' Secret-Keeper. He has told me all he knows, haven't you, Wormtail?" The Dark Lord smiled at the wretch, who whimpered something and bit his lip. 

"Tonight I will go after the Potters and, once they are dead, nothing will stop me from taking over! I leave you, my faithful followers; for this is something I have to do alone. But I shall return and, once I do, then we will turn our attentions towards that Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore!" He was gone in a flash of green. 

We stood around for a while, sometimes talking, sometimes reading, all of us waiting for the return of our master, waiting for the moment we'd waited for for a long time. 

He didn't return. We all knew the moment he was gone – our tattoos burned once, fiercely, and a dreadful pain gripped me, more horrifying and intense than Cruciatus, for a few seconds. I'm not sure if anyone else heard the horrifying shriek I did, that sounded as though it was coming over an immense distance. 

We milled around for a while, unsure of what to do, and then we went our separate ways. I returned to my place briefly, before contacting Dumbledore. As a spy, I knew I should have told him straight away; I knew I should have told him days ago that the Dark Lord had found out who the Secret-Keeper was going to be. I did not. 

_What was it I was thinking, or was I even thinking at all? When I think of what I thought back then, then I'm ashamed; and I'm appalled that I gave up all I was so easily_

I remember the day I told Dumbledore that I wanted to switch sides. It was a bit more than a year before Harry Potter was born. I still don't know why I did it. I believed fiercely in what Voldemort stood for, and I have never, ever managed to shake the feelings of conviction and pure adoration I had when I was in his service. 

I was only young when my father inspired my interest in the Dark Arts. I still remember the moment – he was telling my mother about a curse he'd discovered, and grinned at me as he performed it on a wary house-elf. The shrieks from the poor creature were at the same time equally appalling and thrilling. I wanted to be able to do that, to have so much power over another living being. My father was delighted, and we spent most evenings in the library, poring over ancient scrolls or practising hexes. It was the only thing we had in common. 

When I started at school, my enthusiasm for the Dark Arts increased. Here, I had a library more extensive than my father's to peruse at my leisure, and I was making friends who were interested in the same thing. It didn't take us long to find each other and once we had, we stuck together. It made the occasional humiliations at the hands of Mr Perfect Potter and his friends a lot easier to bear; I remember getting my revenge on him once, by successfully turning him into a toad and threatening to jump around the room on a pogo stick. I had received a months' worth of detentions for it, but I didn't care. Maybe that was why I withheld information from Dumbledore; it was the ultimate revenge for the humiliation of our schooldays. It sounds callow, I know, but I have never claimed to be a nice person. 

My friends and I joined Voldemort together. I was frustrated upon leaving school; the world seemed to be in such a mess, and he seemed to have all the answers. We served him faithfully, and the day I received the Dark Mark was the proudest moment of my life. Life was certainly interesting when you were around the Dark Lord. 

_Living your life is not for me _

After I had persuaded Dumbledore to give me a second chance, I soon found myself growing frustrated again. Everyone around me had such calm, neat, _ordered_ lives, quite in contrast to my own view on life. And after the Dark Lord had been thwarted, life quickly returned to how it had been before I had met him, only this time Potter and his friends weren't there to humiliate me around every corner. 

I suppose my reasons for turning spy were entirely selfish. It was frustrating not knowing how the other side worked; it was frustrating at having to always guess at their moves and get thwarted at every opportunity. Becoming a spy at least allowed me to satisfy my curiosity, and I gained some level of respect amongst the people I had come to regard as the enemy. It was this level of respect that allowed Dumbledore to speak up for me at my trial, and allowed me to get stuck into that tedious old routine of teaching the same dreary subject every day to a bunch of dunderheads that seemed to get even more brainless as the years wore on. 

_I won't be sedated, I won't be sedated! Give me a little taste and I know I won't want more. I won't be sedated, stability is overrated, give me the disorder I adore _

I was pleased when Harry Potter started at the school. Suddenly it seemed as if there was some bright spark on the horizon. Why was I so horrible to him? Well, he always was exactly like his father. You could say that I was harbouring a grudge towards dear old James Potter, because that's exactly what it was. I hated him more than I have ever hated another living thing, and his brat coming under my charge at school was a perfect opportunity to unleash some of the resentment and restlessness that had been building every passing day since the First War ended. 

The years that followed were so neat and ordered, you could have plotted them on an almanac and it would be exactly the same the next year. I hated it. Bullying Potter was the only highlight of my otherwise miserable existence. It would have been more interesting had I been offered the Defence Against The Dark Arts position; I would at least have been teaching my passion. But I was always rejected, and life was dull. 

_What was it you were thinking, or were you even thinking at all? When I think of what you thought of me I take offence; and I'm appalled that you could discount all I love so easily. Living our life is not for me._

I've often wondered why the Headmaster gave me that second chance. I was always the annoying, sniveling, weird and depressing kid at school, and I was no better as an adult. Could it be that he saw something in me that I couldn't even see in myself? I doubt it. 

It was easy to convince him that I wanted to switch sides; being highly skilled in Legilimency I was able to tell lies and part-truths convincingly. He kept a close watch on me in those first months but, as I exceeded his expectations and acted like a good little boy, his confidence grew in me and he began to trust me. 

It was a bizarre feeling, being thought of as trustworthy by someone who is supposed to be wise and rumoured to be all-knowing. The fact that even I didn't consider myself to be particularly trustworthy made it all the more weird. 

What hurt, though, was having to pretend to denounce the Dark Arts. I'd lived with them for as long as I could remember; they were as much a part of me as long, greasy hair or a hooked nose. They were what I _was_. And hearing people denounce them so freely, dismissing things that they had no understanding of . . . how could they understand how perfect a branch of magic the Dark Arts is? Being able to perform the spells is only a part of it; it's _knowing that you know them and being able to _choose_ whether or not to use them . . . that's real power. The ones who become consumed and use the Dark Arts left, right and centre are the weak ones. The ones, like me, who can hold the power in check so that mere _rumour_ bends people to your will . . . the feeling, well, it's almost orgasmic. Better. _

_I can't be a part, be a part, I can't be a part, I can't be a part, be a part of your modern world_

And now the Second War is about to begin. You believe I'm on your side; you have good reason to, since it is a part I have been playing for a number of years. But the thing is, I can't live in your world. It stifles me. The world I know I belong to can offer me so much more. And it is with only a touch of regret, Headmaster, that I will shortly be leaving your services and joining those who appreciate my talents. 

_I've gotta be apart, be apart, I've gotta be apart, I've gotta be apart, I can't grasp the values that you hold. _

Farewell. 

_Severus__ Snape. _


End file.
